


The Sharp Edge of Love

by SStar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Disturbing Themes, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, rarely, Mycroft needs an anchor. To stop him from slicing his conscience and sanity into tiny slivers.</p><p>Sherlock always comes when his brother needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharp Edge of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing but my own filthy mind. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, mostly unedited - all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Please take note of the tags and don't read if you're not comfortable with the kink.

_The people. The noise._

His fingers are twitching, tapping out a discordant rhythm he can’t control. If his hands were in fact dancing along the ivory and ebony of a piano, the sounds he makes would make one think the instrument needed tuning. His leg bounces and he can’t help but shift his body position every few minutes. Worst of all his mind, his most powerful and dominating tool is racing, but without purpose or structure.

He stands, sits. Stands again.

His eyes flick to the clock. _Not enough time. Traffic at this time in central London would take at least fifteen percent longer than usual. Perhaps as much twenty._

His hands brush the leather case, carefully placed on the corner of his bed, a perfect two inches from the edge. _At right angles. Sharp. Clean. Precise._

He sits and then immediately stands again; shrugs his suit jacket off. _A_ very _fine black and white check with a wide pink windowpane check running through the fabric and a dark blue polka dot pocket square pressed into a pointed, crisp edge._ It’ll only get in the way soon enough.

Breathe. In. Out. Again. Twice. His fingers are twitching again.

He turns to the large mirror in his room and he’s surprised that his face looks calm, composed, controlled. His eyes, blue like burning copper chloride, are unrestrained and he flinches. Looks away. The urge to punch the mirror flashes through his mind and his right hand clenches, so easy, so quick; it’s almost satisfying in its simplicity and brutality. _Slivers of glass cascading to the floor like rain, the sound of the mirror breaking an aria, the unwritten formulae that set the fractal patterns._

Slowly he relaxes. Fingers uncurl. He brings his hand up and looks; sharp, deep curves intends still visible in his palm, the hint of redness under his skin. It calls to him.

A faint noise distracts him and his eye fly back to the clock. _He’s here._

He turns to the door. Anticipating. Footsteps echo on the hardwood flooring, steady, closer. He doesn’t move, even though he wants to feel warm skin, heart beating under his fingers. He looks at the bedroom door, rectangular, inflexible. He hears the sharp click, of metal against the warm grain of wood, as the door opens.

“I was in the Docklands when you called me.”

“I know.”

“You know what London traffic is like.”

“You arrived within an acceptable period of time.”

The sharp eyes on him are dissecting him, reading the visual clues. This is rare enough but not the first time he’s needed this. He sees the blue eyes flick to the bed and he waits for the imminent deduction.

“Oh Mycroft,” his brother finally says, softly. Accepting. He walks into the room, shedding his greatcoat and scarf. “What was it?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he approaches him. “All actions have consequences.”

He gives a short, shrill laugh. “Obvious,” he states in a bored tone, standing his ground as his brother comes to a stop in front of him. “It’s just a matter of degrees.”

“Why now?” Sherlock asks. “Why not last month or next week?”

“It just is.”

His body tenses as he feels long, callused fingers trace the curve of his ear, trailing the line of his jaw, down his neck until it rests at his carotid artery. They dig into his skin and he can feel the throb of blood pulse like a drumbeat and he relaxes. Soft, dry lips press against his own for a moment. Chaste. For now.

Sherlock lets him go and unbuttons his jacket, tosses it onto the armchair before levelling a considered look back at him. “You or me?”

A shiver of anticipation runs down his spine, leaving a delightful tingle in its wake. “You. If that’s acceptable.”

Sherlock frowns. “I’ve never refused you.”

He knows but he will always ask. He raises his hand and rests it on the dark red shirt, counts his brother’s heartbeats. “What’s your safe word, Sherlock?”

His little brother scowls. “The same as last time,” he replies a little petulantly. “It’s always the same, Mycroft. Why keep asking?”

Because he’s afraid that one day his control will break. That he’ll hurt his brother and lose him. “You know why.” _Because it would break my heart and damn my soul more than all the other things I have done for Queen and Country, for you_ is left unspoken between.

Sherlock leans forward, pressing against his hand that’s still resting on his body, until his forehead rests against Mycroft’s own. “Prometheus.”

“Prometheus,” he echoes.

Sherlock takes his hand and pulls him towards the large bed before he’s pulled into a hot, wet kiss which demands his attention but his thoughts still run wild, chaotic. He feels, rather than sees, fingers at his throat, pulling at his tie, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He raises his own hands and he starts to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. Pale skin peeks through, like a thin lethal rapier floating in a sea of blood. There’s a brief confusion of fingers, arms and bodies as they co-ordinate to remove his braces and cuff-links before Sherlock can pull both shirts off.

There’s a slight pressure on his shoulders and he acquiesces, making himself comfortable on his bed. Sherlock’s busy as he unlaces his shoes and pulls off his socks, repeating the actions for Mycroft and so he takes the opportunity to examine his little brother. He can see a few pale silver scars dotted on his back, a leftover from Serbia. When Sherlock straightens up, he can see the healed bullet wound and the appendectomy scar.

He grunts when Sherlock climbs onto his lap which turns into echoing moans as warm skin meet and bodies rub together. Mycroft tilts his head up and Sherlock obliges him with more kisses, light nips of lips and luxurious tangles of tongue until they’re panting and desperate for air. As they indulge in more kisses, he brings his fingers up to Sherlock’s collarbone, tracing the hard edge beneath soft skin. Sherlock indulges in a sharp nip between kisses and Mycroft retaliates by running his nails up and down the solid planes of his brother’s torso until the pale skin is marked with reddening streaks.

Mycroft pulls away from Sherlock’s delightful, addictive mouth with a small moan and twists his body, pulling his brother and his own body to rest across the length of his bed. He palms the bulge through Sherlock’s trousers and shivers at the resulting groan. A snap of fingers and he’s pulling his brother’s black, tailored trousers and pants off before shucking his own.

Straddling Sherlock, gazing upon his beautiful brother, pliant and trusting, demanding and yielding, and Mycroft realises that his mind is starting to reformat itself, structuring along new lines, forging new paths. He leans down and leaves a trail of nips and from one dusky nipple to the other before shifting his body a little so he can look into his eyes. They’re dilated with want and heat and Mycroft can read the trust in them.

Sherlock stretches his arm away, awkwardly trying to grab the leather case at the corner of the bed but misses as his movement brings their cocks together. Mycroft shudders against the tremors wracking his brother underneath him as they both moan at the contact. A second move is more successful and the small case is pressed into Mycroft’s hand.

“Take what you need,” Sherlock confirms.

He opens the case, pulls out a small object before placing the case to the side. He opens the straight razor, having sterilised it earlier that evening. He’s mapped out the first cut, all of them actually. He never indulges in too many cuts, or cuts too deep. Just enough to take the edge off.

He lowers the blade, rests it at a point an inch above and to the right of his brother’s left nipple. Sherlock’s warm hand comes to rest upon his thigh, supporting, trusting. The slightest flick of his hand and beads of blood well up in the wake of the cut. He uses his free fingers and smears the fluid, leaving a trail that curls around Sherlock’s nipple. As more beads of blood replace those painted on pale skin, he lowers his head and swipes his tongue across the cut, the hint of iron consuming his senses. He manages a second swipe before Sherlock pulls his head up for a kiss, sucks his reddened tongue into his own sinful mouth.

Regrettably he pulls away from that tempting mouth, repositions his razor just to the left of his brother’s right nipple but hovering several inches above and waits until Sherlock’s dilated eyes meet his own. “I’m going to paint a masterpiece on your chest with your own blood,” he promises huskily. “Then we’ll both admire my work in that mirror with you on my lap as we fuck. Would you like that, brother mine?”

The trust he sees in Sherlock’s ice-blue eyes, lips curved like a wicked blade and the involuntary jerk of hips, of hard, wet cocks sliding against each other, is all the encouragement he needs.

Mycroft lowers the blade, touches skin. Watches as beads of blood appear and he thinks. I’m falling and when I finish falling, will I shatter like a mirror hitting the floor.

“No.”

“No what?”

“I’ll always catch you, Mycroft. Just like you catch me when I fall.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry - I just had to get this out of my brain!


End file.
